


See No Evil

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [13]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Crying, Execution, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, M/M, Shock, Terrorism, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: ruaniamh requests injured Jager!Please check warnings! This story is not for the faint of heart or easily disturbed.





	See No Evil

He awoke to the drawling sounds of shouting all around him. The voices filtered and scrambled into his brain as one coalesced maelstrom of anger that wrought fury down on even his still unconscious brain, and Jäger hung his head in an arched dip and groaned.

 

Though it was hard, he tried to sift through his last memories to remember how he got here, to pull any thread of information to the forefront quickly before some lingering panic told him it was too late. _Too late for what, though?_ Came the question, but like before, it flew past his grip before he could catch it.

 

_Ah, yes. The tower, in Asia._

 

His eyes nearly refuse to open at first, and even when they do he cannot see a thing, and Jäger wonders briefly if he was rendered blind somehow. A foreign language assaults his sensitive ears and he winces, muffled against obstructed lips go his weak protests and finally, panic sets in.

 

 _“Ah, a little piggy wakes up, see? Have a nice sleep, piggy?”_ Terribly accented German flits through his mind and he jolts upright, registering his immobile limbs and hindered thought processing. A steady thump throughout a focal point on his hairline tells him that he was likely rendered unconscious via trauma to the skull, but that’s all he has the energy to assess before a hand roughly yanks the bag off his head.

 

The light is blinding at first, next to staring into the heat of the sun, and while his eyes adjust to the pain of transition he hears a grumbled curse to his right side, far enough to be faint yet close enough to be identified.

 

“ _B-Bandit…”_

 

Jäger’s voice trembles with disuse and exhaustion and he can hardly recognize himself under the thrumming ache in his skull. Once his vision becomes a blurry focus, he nods towards the man nearest in hopes of seeing Bandit clearly, safe and ready to bust them out together. Instead, he is met with a mirrored sight, Bandit gagged and strapped down to a chair nearly identical to his own and a glare so vicious on his face he could cut diamond.

 

Worry begins to spread by then, fear and stress building up into full-blown awareness which Jäger wishes he could revoke in favour of being back in his dreams once more, to ignore what cruel fate seems to toss towards them for a peace of mind instead.

 

In its place, there are a swarm of White Masks surrounding them, three chairs pressed in some oddly shaped half circle holding Bandit, Mute, and himself, all tied and true.

 

He is scared, “Bandit, Mute, what’s going on?” he begs under a scratched tone, earning some chuckles from the terrorists and a defeated sigh and downward cast gaze from Mute, all three unmasked and bare before the enemy.

 

He gets no answer from either party, of course, just a body gliding behind him and yanking his hair back roughly to elicit a yelp. In turn, Bandit jolts against his chair and growls not unlike that of a rabid dog. Mute is silent, staring razors into the terrorist's eyes and he exudes a similar amount of rage to Bandit, albeit in a more subtle approach.

 

Their situation was _bad._ If the enemy resulted to torture to extract information about Rainbow, they’d need to resort to desperate measures. If they were being used as mice in a game of fetch, then Jäger just prayed that the others left them to die rather than sending a squad to their doom.

 

The hand in his hair pulled roughly at his roots, and sifting through years of training, Jäger managed to suppress any noises of discomfort and simply retreat into his own mind. Information was key here, and they would get none out of him. Mute couldn’t speak without his hands, and Bandit was too stubborn to do so, so Jäger knew they would be overlooked immediately.

 

Their voices reverted back to a language he did not know, sounding similar to Polish with some wicked twist. Panic heightened when he could not understand their plans, and locking eyes with Bandit seemed to help quell his fear even just a bit, warm eyes seeking his heart through his pupils a welcome focus away from the horror just in front of them.

 

In one swift round about the room, one of the smaller terrorists removed the gags from their mouths to appreciative sighs from two and a bite from one, no translation needed for the curse coming out of their mouth then. Bandit received a heavy punch directly to the nose for his efforts and Jäger winced, chest aching something terrible.

 

Suddenly, there were only four White Masks left in the shabby room, two by the door in front of Jäger and two somewhere behind them he could not see. Worry ebbed into his gut and he quickly looked at Mute for comfort, before going back to Bandit who hung his head in pain while his nose gushed rubies into his lap.

 

A shuffle behind him, a sharp sound of metal over metal. Jäger tensed and began to fidget, little whines escaping his throat against his will at the absolute terror seizing his body. He knew that sound, but he just _couldn’t see them and oh god what’s going to happen to them--_

 

“Hey, _Meister._ Look at me, ja?” Bandit’s hushed and clogged voice sounded, and Jäger’s eyes landed on him in wild panic, blown wide and shaking like a leaf. He spoke only in German, for him.

 

He didn’t know why Bandit kept using that nickname, “keep your eyes on me, _Meister_. You’re gonna be just fine. I’ll snap the necks of these mother fuckers if they hurt you, I promise. I’ll get you and Mute out safe and we can go back to hiding spiders in Vigil’s pillow, and putting pink dye in Blitz’ shampoo. Sound good?”

 

His voice was so soothing. Jäger latched onto it like a newborn calf, nodding frantically along with his words and wishing he were anywhere else but here, Bandit’s sandy hair looking welcoming and his bloody face forcing a smile Jäger had never seen before. The terrorists shuffled around behind him, the sounds of metal and the cocking of a hammer lost on his ears in favour of the voice in front of him.

 

There was a shout, a grotesque gurgling to his left and Jäger wanted so bad to look over and see what was going on, to check on Mute, but Bandit kept urging him on with eyes as red as his nose and _was he crying what’s going on Bandit why are you crying--_

 

Shock held him in one place, his chest heaving with laboured breaths as he hyperventilated in the dusty air, hands white-knuckled against the rope biting into his wrists as he locked eye with Bandit, refusing to see what the choking to his side was and unsure if he even _knew_ what it was, horror-laced taut through his body.

 

“Just look at me, okay? Look at me and listen, I’m going to tell you to close your eyes, yeah? I need you to listen!” Desperation leaked into his carefully constructed facade of calm and there was a man in a mask approaching Bandit’s perch, something glinting in his hands obscured by the shadow of the light and Jäger wanted to listen so badly but he- he couldn’t breathe and--

 

"Jäger, don't look babe, please, just close your eyes; imagine you're back in bed, just go back to sleep and it'll be all over, whatever you do don't open them, for _me_ , love you, _please--_ "

 

And Jäger wished he listened, for once, oh, he _wished._ His bindings creaked under his strain and though his eyelids screamed to be let down, that amidst all the tears gathering there his eyes still dried quickly, they stayed pried open and locked on Bandit who begged him to just close them and _dream._

 

The terrorist snatched Bandit’s chin, effectively quieting his soothing voice as he jerked his head up and drew the bloodied kitchen knife across his bared throat, blood collecting and spitting from the incision like a clogged hose. It did not spray, but rather dribbled down like a gentle river. The cut was shallow. Clean. Calculated. He bled but he did not choke.

 

A scream had died in Jäger’s throat somewhere along the way. Eyes dripping and grief thick under his tongue and he could do nothing but watch, glued to the scene he could not look away from. They yanked a bag back down over his head, and he simply observed the woven grey threads stain and grow black with blood as is spilled and spilled and spilled beneath it, caught only by Bandit’s tactical vest and the sack itself.

 

Bandit’s shoulders shook, his breathing stressed and growing ever shallower, dying slowly over the puddle of red growing below his chair. The ghost of a body behind him was lost in his shock, the feel of steel against his neck a mere kiss on a rainy night, the screams and banging of doors and the spray of bullets all around him lost on the ringing in his ears left by the void Bandit left behind. Mute was still and silent to his other side, head covered just the same. His best friend. A husk of a soldier.

 

A knife clattered to the ground and a bullet whizzed past his already deafened ears, a gentle hand upon his shoulder, scissors by his wrists and ankles, Doc’s voice foggy in his brain as his body switched into autopilot as he was carted out of the room. He stared unseeing at the ground before him and only saw blood. They left Mute and Bandit behind.

 

  
He just wished he had said something. _Anything._


End file.
